


Touch-Starved

by Arxsia



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor x Reader - Freeform, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 23:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20768516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arxsia/pseuds/Arxsia
Summary: Missing someone is hard enough. Missing them AND being touch-starved is worse.





	Touch-Starved

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this without really proofreading it. Sort of a vent fic. I just started writing and kept going until it felt finished, so if it feels a little directionless, I apologize. My main purpose was to get some feelings out and Connor was a good outlet for them. I hope it's alright anyway. Please enjoy~ <3

Before Connor, before this new life with him, you’d been incredibly touch-starved. Even now, several months into your relationship, there were times you ached for contact, lonely nights you wished were filled with his presence. You’d been alone for so long that you still yet haven’t grown accustomed to living with someone else, human or android or otherwise. Even so, he couldn’t  _ always _ be by your side, between his busy job at the DPD and his semi-frequent meetings with Markus and the Jericrew as they continued to work on changing the Android laws.

Tonight was one such lonely night. You hadn’t seen much of Connor in over three weeks and the distance, no matter how unintentional, was starting to get to you. A few texts here and there, a stolen kiss or two when you were lucky enough to catch him before he sped off to work, not much more.

Missing someone sucked.

And now you lay sprawled out on the couch like a starfish, bored out of your mind but with very little energy or desire to do anything. You’d put on a cooking show, if the sounds of sizzling pans were anything to go by, and judging by the month and the darkness of the sky you guessed it was anywhere between 8 and 11PM before confirming with the clock, which glowed 10:25 in bright blue light; too late to try to push yourself into doing something but still too early to go to bed. So you continued to stare mindlessly at the tv, wondering when you’d get to properly spend time with Connor again.

It was maybe an hour later and you were starting to doze off when the universe finally seemed to take pity on you. The door opened and in your half-asleep daze you spotted Connor walking in, an excited, buzzing air about him. Rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you sit up and smile at him as he walks over to join you on the couch, leaning in to press a swift little kiss against your lips.

“Good evening my love, did I wake you?”

“No, no,” you assure him, “I was just starting to nod off before you got home. But what’s up, you seem excited about something.”

He nods with a pleased smile, rich brown eyes practically sparkling with pride as he begins to tell you about the case he and Hank had finally solved. You always loved how expressive Connor was, beautiful features shifting to convey so many emotions. Transfixed by the sea of mocha, you itch to touch him, to trace your fingertips across the slight smattering of freckles across his face, like a game of connect the dots, but much more satisfying.

“Y/N?”

“Hm?” you respond distractedly, blinking as you shake yourself out of your stupor. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“You seem… distracted. Are you alright, love?” Connor looks you over and you can tell by the momentary yellow flickers of his LED that he’s currently scanning your vitals. But you’re fine, more or less, the somewhat-crippling loneliness aside, and you try to convince him as such, with a playful boop of your finger against his nose.

“I’m fine, my sweet, just a bit tired is all.” It’s not a lie; you’d managed to mess up your sleep schedule a bit consistently trying to wait up for him, to no avail.

Connor tilts his head, processing. “No,” he refutes, leaning closer to cup your cheek in his hand. The sudden touch sparks a little jolt through your body and you’re hit with a wave of emotion. You wring your hands in your lap ever so slightly, slowly, hoping he doesn’t notice the movement, but it doesn’t matter, you’ve already given yourself away.

“Y/N, what’s wrong?”

You shake your head, trying hard not to cling, no matter how desperate you are to touch him, to curl into him, to lace your fingers through his and bury yourself in the shelter of his sturdy frame. He’s never given you a reason to believe you could push him away, but you just can’t help but worry that someday you inevitably will. That was always the case with anyone who got too close to you, who became too important. Either you weren’t enough and they’d get bored of you or you were too much and they’d drift away. Neither hurt more or less, they simply… hurt. 

“Really, I’m fine, just a bit sleepy.”

“ _ Y/N _ ,” he repeats, his tone much more firm, serious.

You’re tired. You’d barely seen him in three or four weeks and you wanted nothing more than his touch, an anchor to ground you and remind you that he is here by  _ choice _ , that he  _ wants  _ to be here and that he  _ loves  _ you. Defeated, you answer, voice smaller than you intended. “I missed you.”

“What do you mean?”

“...I missed you,” you repeat, unable to say much more, your gaze darting away. You hope he can understand because, honestly, you’re not really sure how to explain what you’re feeling.

Despite your lack of explanation, he seems to understand, or at least he understands enough, because he edges closer, placing his hands over yours to pull them out of your lap. “Y/N, I’m here. Hank and I just solved a big case. I could request a few days off so we could-”

“No,” you interrupt, tugging your hands back, “no, don’t do that. You love your work, I couldn’t ask you to take time off for me. You’re here now, that’s enough.”

“Is it?” he asks, tilting your head back up to face him. “We’ve barely seen each other in twenty-three days. I’ve missed you too.”

“You did?”

“Of course.” His hands find yours again as he leans in to kiss you, slowly this time. Finally, you get to savor him once again. Despite yourself, you clutch his hands tightly, not letting go until he deepens the kiss, and then you only let go to wrap your arms around his back, pulling him against you with a needy whimper.

Connor breaks the kiss, voice gentle, concerned. “Y/N?”

“I’m… Sorry, I just… Would you hold me, Connor? …Please?” You hate yourself for sounding so weak, so desperate, but Connor doesn’t hesitate in sliding you over into his lap, arms locking securely around your waist and back.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his shoulder before burying your face in his neck. The two of you remain there for some time, until you’ve relaxed, until you feel the moisture on your cheeks that spreads to his neck, which makes you both realize you’re crying and you both edge slightly apart to wipe the tears away. You almost laugh at the synchronized gesture, heart fluttering as he beats you to it, thumbs wiping your cheeks and the corners of your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, a habit.

“Why are you apologizing?”

“Because… I don’t know.”

“You haven’t done anything that you need to apologize for.”

Somewhere, in the logical part of your brain, you know he’s right. You just can’t help it. Here you are with your illogical mess of human emotions and still, he stays. Still, he loves you.

Sighing, you say nothing and take one of his hands, holding it between both of your own. Your fingers sweep over the synthetic skin, trying to memorize it. His free hand settles against your lower back as he watches you quietly, not wanting to interrupt whatever this is that you seem to need.

“...Connor?”

“Yes?”

“May I-... I want to… Your hand. Would you please… pull your skin back?”

Connor hesitates, only for a moment, but he grants your request, the skin of his hand shifting away to reveal the pristine plastic underneath. Once more, you run your fingers over his hand, perfectly smooth to the touch, save for the lines at the joints that provided the androids with fully-functional mobility. You marvel at it for a while, not just his hand, but everything about this moment, the closeness of your bodies, the wonderful sound of his voice as he asks you anew if you’re okay. You aren’t sure. You decide to answer by pressing a kiss to his palm before looking back at him.

There’s a warmth in your chest that had been missing the past few weeks, and you press your forehead to his, eyes sliding shut as you stay in his lap, fingers sweeping across his hand, over and over, and over.


End file.
